


Making Do

by tinzelda



Series: Scraps [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Steve's adventures in Hollywood, Wartime Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4903807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on tour with the USO, Steve gets dragged to a decadent Hollywood party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Do

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Scappodaqui for reading multiple versions of this and giving suggestions (and cheerleading) that made it better. And for being the best writing partner ever.

“Come on.” Frank gave Steve’s shoulder a nudge. “We should celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” Steve wished he could loosen his tie, but he wouldn’t while he was in uniform.

“Your movie. Everyone loved it.”

“I guess,” Steve said. He felt a little better now that they were outside. It had been too warm in the theater. “I guess it wasn’t too bad.”

“I’m not saying you’re Olivier, now.” Frank laughed. “And Cagney and Bogart probably aren’t looking over their shoulders. But you were great.”

Steve rolled his eyes and started walking down the sidewalk away from the crowd.

“Some of the guys are going out for a few drinks. We could go meet them,” Frank called after him, then jogged to catch up and threw his arm over Steve’s shoulders.

The gesture reminded Steve of Bucky, of course, and stopped him in his tracks. If Bucky were there, he wouldn’t be congratulating Steve. He’d be teasing him mercilessly. And Steve would love every minute of it.

Frank’s arm fell away. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Steve lied.

“Look at you. Star of the silver screen. People would kill for that part, and you’d rather be painting scenery.”

Steve looked at Frank, surprised that he understood.

“Well, if you don’t want to celebrate, what should we do?” Frank tilted his head. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Steve insisted. He waved a hand back in the direction of the theater. “It’s just all a little much.”

Frank was still watching him—studying him. “The other day you said you wanted to see my paintings.” Though Frank made his living doing backdrops for the studio, he considered that hack work. He’d studied at the Art Institute of Chicago and hoped to make a name for himself someday. “Did you mean it?”

“Yeah, sure I did.”

“We could go to my place.”

Steve smiled. He would much rather spend the evening arguing color and composition with Frank than sit in a hot, crowded bar. “Sounds perfect.”

“Yeah?” Frank seemed jittery, like he was nervous, but Steve understood. It was always a little nerve-wracking showing someone your work for the first time.

“I’d love to see them.”

A brilliant smile spread over Frank’s face, and Steve’s own grin became more genuine.

“Okay,” Frank said. “Okay, great. Let’s go.”

 

*****

“Can I get you a drink?” Frank said as he turned on a few lamps.

“Maybe just a glass of water.”

Frank gave him a funny look, but Steve didn’t want anything stronger. He’d noticed that alcohol didn’t seem to have much of an effect on him anymore. He didn’t know if it was a side effect of the serum or just that he was so damn big now, but he didn’t want to take a chance of anything clouding his mind. Frank was smart. He knew a lot about art, and he talked a mile a minute. Steve wanted to stay sharp and keep up.

“Have a seat,” Frank said. “I’ll be right back.”

Instead of sitting, Steve went over to look at the painting hanging on the wall by the window. It was abstract—a swirl of color. For all that the palette was bright, it wasn’t a happy picture, though Steve couldn’t figure out why.

Steve called, “Is this your work?”

“What’s that?” Frank said as he came back from the kitchen. He’d taken off his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves.

“This,” Steve said, nodding his head at the painting in question. “Is this yours?”

Frank laughed. “God, no. I’m far too in love with the human form to waste time with abstract art.”

“Waste time?” Steve turned as Frank approached. “But you have this hanging in your living room. Don’t you like—”

Frank cut Steve off with a kiss.

Steve jumped away, and Frank followed, pushing close. Steve took several stumbling steps backward until his calves hit the low sofa behind him and he went sprawling onto it. Frank laughed—a burst of pure delight—and crawled right over Steve, straddling his hips and bending down for another kiss.

His lips were warm and soft, and God, he smelled good. Steve’s eyes snapped open—though he didn’t remember closing them—and struggled to sit up. “Frank—”

Frank swooped in again. Steve felt the wet swipe of Frank’s tongue across his bottom lip and Frank’s fingers clenched tight in his hair. Steve groaned, but he turned his face away, reaching out with both hands to gently push Frank off his lap. “Wait,” Steve panted out. “Stop.”

“Give it a chance, Steve.” Frank’s hand slid down to cradle the back of Steve’s neck. “Come on, I can tell you like it.” He leaned close, bent his head to suck at Steve’s neck just behind his ear, then whispered, “It’s not that different from girls.”

Steve ducked his head to loosen Frank’s hand from his hair, then jumped up to flee from the couch entirely. He stood in the middle of the room, feeling like his uniform was strangling him.

“Steve—”

“No, listen. I’m sorry.”

The apology seemed to confuse Frank. He flopped back on the couch, frowning. “What on earth are you sorry for?”

“For—” Steve swallowed. “I don’t know exactly.”

Frank’s expression shifted into something mischievous. “Well, then. Stop being sorry, and come sit back down. Come on, give it a chance. I promise I won’t bite.” He patted the cushion next to him invitingly.

“There’s . . .” Steve shook his head to clear it. He resisted the urge to adjust his trousers. “There’s someone else. I mean, I—”

“Let me guess,” Frank said. He was sitting with his legs primly crossed at the knee, studying Steve. “Sweet little farm girl back home?”

“What? No, there’s no farm—I’m from Brooklyn. And there’s no girl.”

Frank’s expression morphed into genuine surprise. “So you like boys?”

“Well, no, not—I mean, I like one particular boy.”

Frank’s face fell and his shoulders sagged. “Oh, no.”

“What?”

“Just my luck.”

Steve sank onto the couch at the far end from where Frank was sitting. “Frank, what are you talking about?”

“You’re gorgeous, you’re far from stupid, and not a half-bad artist, and I start to hope that maybe . . . then I kiss you and it was pretty damn good, if I do say so myself, and you liked it. I could tell you liked it.”

Steve shifted uncomfortably.

“But you’re carrying a torch for a _particular boy_. You’re a romantic, of all things. You’re probably in love with him.”

“You say that it like it’s a bad thing,” Steve said, letting his annoyance bleed into his voice. “I thought someone like you would understand.”

“Someone like me?” Frank grimaced and waved his hand in the air, as if to erase his words. “No, don’t listen to me. Or at least forgive me. Though I think I’m entitled to a little bitterness. But it’s my own fault, getting my hopes up.”

“I guess that’s why I’m sorry,” Steve said. “I really thought we were coming here to look at your paintings.”

Frank started laughing.

“So I guess you’re reconsidering what you said about me not being stupid, huh?”

Turning his face up to the ceiling, Frank let out a throaty sigh of frustration. “We have to get out of here.”

“We do?”

“You far too much temptation to have sitting here on my couch, with no one around to chaperone.”

Steve blushed.

“There’s a party. I wasn’t going to go, with your movie and all, but it’ll get us out of the house.” Frank jumped up from the couch. “Where did I leave my tie?” He was almost out of the room when he turned back to look at Steve over his shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” Frank sounded like he was trying to convince himself just as much as Steve.

Steve followed Frank down the stairs to the apartment on the bottom story, where he asked his neighbor if they could borrow her car.

“You gotta fill up the tank,” she warned. Steve noticed that her lipstick was smeared. “Last time you left me with fumes.”

“Of course.” Frank gave her a charming smile. “Of course. I’ll wash it for you too.”

“You better.” As she handed over the keys, her robe fell open, and she had only a slip on underneath. Steve averted his eyes.

“Divorcee,” Frank whispered as they went down the front steps. “Always drunk as a skunk, but she never uses her car, so I stay on her good side.”

Frank unlocked the passenger side door first and opened it for Steve, as if this were a date, as if he were a dame. When he noticed Steve’s discomfort, Frank said, “Will you get in already? I’m just being polite.” They drove away from the small houses in Frank’s neighborhood and up into the hills.

After a few minutes, Frank switched off the radio. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“If there was no particular boy,” Frank drawled, “would you have told me to stop?

Steve could almost feel Frank’s mouth on his, Frank’s fingers tangled in his hair. He glanced over at Frank—he was handsome, with wavy brown hair and thick lashes around eyes so dark you couldn’t see the line between pupil and iris. Not that Steve could see that in the darkness of the car, but he’d noticed, hadn’t he? He’d noticed it without quite realizing that it had made an impression. Steve’s face grew hot again.

“That’s some consolation at least,” Frank said. “Who is this particular boy, anyway?”

Steve hesitated. “He’s my best friend. He’s in Europe.”

“A soldier?”

“Yeah.”

“Good lord, it’s melodrama come to life.” Frank said with a sigh. “I see how it’ll be—he’ll come home wounded but bravely carrying on, and you’ll nurse him back—”

“Watch it,” Steve said, pushing down a jolt of anger. “I’ll chalk that comment up to that bitterness I’m supposed to forgive you for, but I’ll ask you not to joke about it again.”

Frank’s mouth fell open. Then he laughed. “Good for you. Put me in my place. I didn’t know you had it in you, sweet romantic boy that you are.” Frank took his right hand off the steering wheel and set it reverently on his chest. “I apologize for my cynicism from the bottom of my heart. Your beloved boy will surely _not_ get injured like a tragic movie hero. Do go on.”

The sarcasm rankled, but Steve decided to let it pass for the comfort of talking about Bucky. “There’s not much to tell, I guess. We’ve known each other since we were kids. I’ve been in love with him—” Steve couldn’t really remember a time when he wasn’t in love with Bucky. “I’ve always loved him.”

Frank was silent now.

“I never thought he could think about me like that, but when he was shipping out, we were saying goodbye, and he kissed me. I was so surprised. But then he had to go.”

“To Europe?” Frank seemed riveted. Maybe he wasn’t as jaded as he pretended to be.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s in Italy. But the censors cross out that stuff, you know—anything too specific.”

“He’s written to you?”

Steve couldn’t fight back a grin, thinking of ice cream. “Yeah, we write a lot.”

Frank groaned.

“Hey, you asked.”

“I know, I know.” Frank shook his head. “And it’s sweet as can be. Ignore me.”

Steve smiled. He was right about Frank: the romance of it appealed to him, obviously, but he said snide things to cover it up. “So wait,” Frank said. “He’s in Italy.”

“I think so. Or at least he was.”

“And you’re _staying true_ to this guy. Saving yourself? For this guy you’ve kissed once?”

“Well, twice.”

“Twice.”

“Yeah.” Steve felt his cheeks grow warm again at the memory. “But it’s not just—”

“Wait, that makes you embarrassed? Two kisses?”

The heat in Steve’s face intensified. “Well, it’s not like we had time for anything else! I told you—he was leaving.”

“What about other boys?”

“Other boys?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know you want to be loyal and true to your particular boy, but what about before?”

Steve shook his head.

“You’ve never . . . ?

Steve shook his head again.

“How about with a girl?”

“Not exactly.”

“You’re kidding me,” Frank said. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“It’s not my fault.”

“Not your fault? You walk around looking like a damn Greek god and say it’s not your fault?”

“I haven’t always looked like this,” Steve said quietly. “I was so skinny you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Okay, but then you turn yourself into Charles Atlas and still don’t make time?”

“That’s not—” Steve didn’t like the way Frank was talking, like it was laughable to want to be loyal, to want your first time to be something to remember. “You don’t understand.”

“No,” Frank agreed. “No, I don’t understand.”

They were silent for a while after that, but Frank drove on. They passed into a swanky neighborhood where every house had a sweeping manicured lawn.

It occurred to Steve that Frank, while skeptical about matters of the heart, might at least be a source of information about more practical things. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Ask away.”

“It’s kind of a . . . delicate subject.”

“My favorite kind.”

“Is there something about a shovel?” Steve said.

Squinting, Frank shook his head. “I don’t know whether to be intrigued or terrified.”

“No, like a euphemism or something? It’s just something Bucky wrote in a letter,” Steve explained, willing his cheeks to cool down. “We kind of have to talk _around_ things, you know, and I couldn’t figure out. . . .” He trailed off, then reached out to give Frank’s shoulder a playful shove. “Will you stop laughing at me already?”

“I’m not,” Frank said, but he was fighting to hide a grin. “Please tell me your particular boy has a little more experience than you. Otherwise I bet you’ll be doing nothing but kissing for six months and probably explode from the pressure.”

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted. “He’s certainly got plenty of experience with dames. I know that.”

“What good is that?”

“You said before that it’s not that different from girls.”

“I _lied_ , okay? Men have been known to do that when they really want to—”

“Okay! Okay, I get it.”

“How about I give you just a few pieces of advice?” Frank said. “It’s rare that I am recognized for my vast knowledge and experience, so I should take every opportunity to teach what I can. Here you go, the most important thing to remember: if it feels good, do it.”

Steve laughed, though his face was burning. “I think we could have figured that much out on our own, thanks.”

“I’m not done!” Frank said, holding up one finger “The reverse of that is: if it hurts, don’t do it.”

“Okay,” Steve rolled his eyes “This isn’t really—”

But Frank talked right over him: “So if you’re going to do anything involving _penetration_ —”

“Geez, Frank, come on—”

“—you need to think about _lubrication_.”

Was it possible for a person to disappear in a puff of steam from scorching embarrassment?

The thought of it, though—the thought of Bucky doing that to him made something hot roil deep in Steve’s belly. His dick was getting hard—it seemed to happen at the drop of a hat now, and Steve wondered if it could be a side effect of the serum, like with the liquor. Or maybe it was just thinking about Bucky all the time. Steve had made a habit of never letting himself fantasize about Bucky—it always felt like taking advantage—taking liberties—when he had no idea how Steve felt about him. But now Bucky had given him permission, given him instructions to treat himself to a “sundae” and _savor every lick_.

“But you don’t have to do that, you know,” Frank continued. “Lots of fellas don’t. And you don’t need to worry about finding something slippery with mouths and tongues—they’re naturally wet.”

 _Bucky’s mouth_. Steve had always been distracted by Bucky’s mouth, and all Bucky’s talk about ice cream didn’t help. He was fully hard now and painfully pressing at the fly of his pants. Though he didn’t move a muscle or say a word, his discomfort must have been obvious.

“This is even more fun than I thought,” Frank said.

“You’re awful.”

“I am. I really am.” Frank had an evil grin on his face. “Hey, you can always mix and match, you know, if you want to make your particular boy particularly happy. I bet if you put a couple of fingers in his ass while you’re sucking him off—”

“Frank—”

“You’ve got nice long fingers. And there’s a particular spot—”

“Frank!” Steve swallowed. _Would Bucky let him do that?_ “You’re—you’re just saying all of this to make me blush, aren’t you?”

Frank’s laugh came out sounding like a cackle. Steve was mortified and electrified and sweating through his shirt, but he was laughing too. It felt good.

A few beats later, Steve’s brain caught up with what Frank had said: “Wait, what you mean ‘a particular spot’?”

 

*****

There were cars lining both sides of the street in front of the house where Frank pulled up. He parked expertly in a tight space and led Steve up the flagstone path.

“James always has everyone out by the pool,” Frank said.

 _James_. It made Steve pause for a moment, thinking of Bucky, wishing he could be there. He always enjoyed parties more than Steve, and Steve loved to watch him shaking hands with the fellas and flirting with the girls, showing off a little.

The path led to the front door, but Frank veered around the side of the house. The back yard was crowded and noisy, with music wafting out of the open windows. Steve paused as he turned the corner, but Frank grabbed his arm and pulled him along. They passed through a gap in the boxwood hedge, and Frank pulled Steve right into a tall blond man who was kicking off his shoes.

“Sorry,” Steve said.

After bending to pull off his socks, the guy turned. A lazy grin spread across his face as he unbuttoned his shirt. “No problem at all.” He draped his shirt over the bushes, then pulled his undershirt off over his head. “You coming in?” he asked with a jerk of his head toward the swimming pool.

“I—I don’t have a suit,” Steve answered. He kept his gaze on the guy’s face, even though he could tell from the movements just below his sightline that the guy was unbuckling his belt.

“What’s wrong with your birthday suit?” With one fluid motion, the guy stripped off the rest of his clothes and strode naked toward the pool. Steve couldn’t help but stare at the twitching of his ass as he walked away, and when the guy turned around and winked, Steve’s face went hot. Once he looked, he saw that most of the men by the pool weren’t wearing swimsuits either.

The guy picked up his pace as he neared the pool. By the time he reached the edge, he was almost running. He leapt and jumped right over the heads of two men clinging to the pool’s edge, locked in an embrace. They glanced up and glared at the interruption, then drew back together for another deep kiss. A third man sat next to them, watching intently, and Steve was shocked to see him slip into the water and push his way between them. They parted obligingly and twined their arms around him.

Frank leaned in to whisper in Steve’s ear. “You should see your face. Didn’t I tell you it would be fun?”

As Steve tried to find an answer, someone brushed past and accidentally stepped on Steve’s foot. He turned to politely apologize, showing Steve a face familiar from half a dozen movies. Steve turned to Frank. “Is that—?”

“Don’t talk about it,” Frank said. “He’s married, you know.”

Steve watched the guy approach a slim young man—impossibly young—and talk for a while. The boy was obviously star-struck, gazing up with a stunned smile on his face until the guy took him by the hand and led him into the bushes on the far side of the pool.

Someone shouted Frank’s name, and he turned, scanning the yard to see who was calling him. A short balding man approached and grabbed Frank’s arm. “I thought tonight was the big premier. Didn’t you—?” He broke off as he caught sight of Steve. “Is this him?” His eyes scanned Steve up and down. “Hot damn, you sure weren’t exaggerating.”

Frank gave Steve an apologetic smile. “I’ll be back in a sec, okay? Get yourself a drink.” Frank’s friend was dragging him away by one arm, but Frank turned back to yell, “There’s usually a bar set up over by the—” Then he was lost in the crowd.

Steve took a deep breath. Had Frank told his friend about Steve? He felt a little bad—he hadn’t meant to lead Frank on.

Though he didn’t want a drink, Steve looked around for the bar. At least holding a glass would give him something to do with his hands, something to look at other than the gleaming wet bodies by the pool.

“Hey there, soldier,” a voice purred from behind him.

A denial of the title was on the tip of Steve’s tongue as he turned, but he was in uniform. He should have asked Frank to take him to the hotel to change before coming here.

The fella was dressed, thank goodness, though his shirt was unbuttoned and hanging open. He pressed close to Steve, wrapped one arm around him, and grabbed his ass. “Perfect,” he said with a throaty laugh. “God, you’re perfect.”

Steve froze for a moment, but a flash of anger spurred him into action. He shoved the guy away, resisting the sudden urge to slam his fist into that smugly grinning mouth. He knew it was irrational. It was just because the guy was there, beautiful with a drink in his hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips, touching Steve because it was fun, because it was a party, while Bucky was in the mud and the cold and—for all their jokes about food—maybe not even getting enough to eat. Perching in the trees and killing people.

 _What am I even doing here?_ Steve thought. He took a deep breath and apologized, as if the guy could somehow see the violence his playful pass had evoked.

Then Steve turned and walked away into the garden. He hoped to get away from the party and clear his head, but only a few paces into the shadows, he heard a noise off to one side. There was a couple on the grass, their bare skin glowing pale. One man was on his hands and knees while the other pushed into him from behind, hands clamped hard on his partner’s hips.

Steve stopped as if turned to stone. He watched, fascinated and a little horrified. Did it hurt? It must. He looked carefully at the man on all fours. His head hung down from his shoulders like he didn’t have the strength to hold it up.

Would Bucky want to do this? Steve would try just about anything, if Bucky wanted it. He was strong now. He could take it, even if it hurt. But Frank had said not to do something if it hurt, so maybe you just had to know how to do it right. Maybe Frank would explain more. Steve could handle the teasing and the embarrassment.

A low moan startled Steve—was the guy really in pain? But then he threw his head back, and his expression set Steve’s heart to pounding. The sheer ecstasy on his face was breathtaking.

Steve felt like he was hypnotized, his eyes following the motion of the man’s hips as he pushed back to meet every thrust. Steve was rock hard now, and a fierce, carnal longing for Bucky surged up in his chest before the desire quickly turned to a sick, guilty ache. He spent so much time thinking about Bucky’s mouth, about what Bucky might let him do or want to try. Instead of imagining himself on his knees sucking Bucky’s dick, he should be praying that Bucky would return home, safe and sound.

Steve went deeper into the garden. There was a little building—a pool house or garden shed—its windows dark. Steve figured it would be locked, but the knob turned, so he slipped inside. He closed the door behind him and stood in the quiet dark.

Once he’d caught his breath, he groped next to the door for the light switch. Two bare bulbs hung by their cords from the rafters, dimly illuminating a kind of art studio. There were canvases lined up all along the wall under the windows. A few more rested on a paint-stained work table. Some of the projects were covered with cloths, and Steve didn’t disturb them, but he walked carefully around the cluttered space and looked at the paintings that he could see without touching anything.

First he noticed a still life. It showed an ashtray, a book, and some sort of brass instrument that made Steve think of old pirate ships in Saturday matinees. The painter had skill—the light reflecting off the tarnished brass was captured extremely well—but Steve quickly passed the painting over for a puzzling picture: swooping black lines on off-white paper, almost like parchment. It was abstract, but there seemed to be no order in its composition. The lines curled over each other and crossed at random. Next was a watercolor portrait of a gray-haired woman reading a book. Again, painter’s skill in portraying light was evident in the afternoon sun slanting through the windows in the background of the painting.

“What do you think of that one?” The voice, though quiet, made Steve jump a little. He turned and saw a smartly dressed man standing in the door. “I’m sorry.” He had a crisp British accent. “Did I startle you?”

“No, I’m sorry,” Steve said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

The man waved the apology away with a flick of his cigar. “Your presence could never be an intrusion, I’m sure.”

Was Steve imagining the suggestive tone? The party outside might be coloring everything in his mind. He decided to ignore it. “This is your work?”

The man nodded as he approached. “You were studying that one, and I wondered why.”

“I like it.” Steve shrugged. “It seems . . . peaceful.”

The man’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “That’s a lovely way to put it.”

“I’m curious about this one.” Steve turned to the curving black lines.

“Do you like it?”

“I don’t know. It’s kind of . . . confusing.” Steve turned to look at it again. “What kind of paint is this?”

“Well done, you.” The man said with a slight smile. “It isn’t paint at all. It’s the ink the Japanese use for calligraphy.”

“Interesting.” Steve leaned in close until he could see where individual hairs of the brush had swept the ink across the page, leaving a hint of the pale paper shining through, but the brushstrokes weren’t thick like paint. Straightening, he looked at the whole picture again. “I still can’t make sense of it though.”

The man laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“I find you very refreshing.”

Steve frowned.

“No, no, don’t take offense. I mean that in the best sense. Too often people say how beautiful a painting is or marvel at how very talented I must be, but they’ve barely looked at what’s in front of them. ‘Confusing’ is just fine, especially since that was merely a study for this.” He walked over to one of the covered easels and drew the cloth up to reveal a portrait on the same parchment-like paper. “I couldn’t get the jaw line quite right.”

The drawing showed a man somewhere in age between Steve and his host. He wore a striped tie and a forbidding expression. There was something unsettling in the lines of the picture. Using only ink on paper, the artist must have drawn each line only once. Perhaps that was the problem—an overly careful hand struggling to get each detail just right to avoid having to start all over again.

“What do you think?”

“Well,” Steve hesitated. “It’s not peaceful.”

Another peal of laughter let Steve relax. “No, it wouldn’t be, I suppose. I did this a few days after David moved out the last time.”

Steve felt a little taken aback. It sure sounded like a lover’s quarrel, but even after witnessing the party outside, Steve was surprised by the frankness of the statement. “I’m sorry.”

“No need. He moved back in weeks ago, you know.”

“No, I didn’t—that is, I don’t know David. I came with a friend.”

Suddenly Steve remembered Frank saying he’d be right back. Maybe he was looking for Steve right now, wondering where he was. But Steve wasn’t ready to leave the quiet of the studio just yet.

“May I ask why aren’t you out there enjoying the party?” The question was accompanied by an appraising look that made Steve a little uneasy. “A fine, strapping thing like you would be very popular, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, well, I never wanted to be that popular.”

“A little too forward, were they?”

Steve felt his face threaten to heat up again, but somehow the knowledge that it wouldn’t show much in the uncertain light made it easier to push the embarrassment aside. “You could say that.”

“The jackals.” The man sounded both fond and disdainful of his unruly guests. “Are you really here to ask about my paintings? Most of the pretty boys that come in to talk to me want a role in my next film.”

Steve laughed and looked at his shoes. “Well, I’d much rather talk about art.”

“Are you an artist yourself? You think like one.”

“I dabble.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Just pencil mostly. I got used to it because for a long time it was all I could afford. And color . . . I have a lot to learn about color.” Steve looked again at the ink drawing. “Wait, you said your next film? Are you in the movie business?”

“I used to be.” The man held out his hand. “James Whale.”

“Steve Rogers.” Steve reached out and shook. “Would I know any of your work?”

“Perhaps,” Whale said. He was smiling slyly, and he hadn’t yet let go of Steve’s hand. “Some of my pictures have been popular. Frankenstein was one of the biggest, I suppose. The Invisible Man.”

“Are you kidding? That’s amazing. Frankenstein?” Steve found himself squeezing Whale’s hand, so he let go and took a step back. “Wow, my friend and I went to see Frankenstein over and over. I loved that picture.”

“They weren’t all horror pictures. Show Boat was mine.”

“Oh, my mother liked that one.”

“Did she?” Whale smiled—a real smile this time rather than a leer. “Yes, movies have been good to me. Movies paid for this house. And this party.” He chuckled. “But my roots are in the theater. I have a little theater now. We give many of the seats to soldiers like yourself, if you’d like to attend a performance?”

It was an innocent enough invitation, but the asking still made Steve uncomfortable—just the slightest hint of flirtation. “Thank you, but I think I’ve had enough of the stage for a while.” After a questioning look from Whale, Steve said, “I work with the USO.”

“And all of that flag waving isn’t to your taste?”

Steve huffed out a laugh. Maybe it was harder to be enthusiastic when you yourself were the flag. “I’m as patriotic as they come, and I know bond sales are important, but I’d give anything to be on the front.”

When Whale started laughing, Steve was puzzled, but as the laughter continued through several long minutes, he started to get angry.

“Oh, I am sorry. I don’t meant to offend you, dear boy, but you’re impossibly eager. Trust me when I tell you that fighting for your country isn’t nearly as grand as one might think.”

“You served?”

“Second lieutenant, Worcestershire Regiment.” Whale gave a jaunty salute, immediately followed by a lascivious waggle of his eyebrows. “I saw enough action to be thoroughly terrified, then was captured. I spent the rest of the war in a German prison camp and considered myself lucky. That’s how I got involved in theater, funnily enough—we used to put on amateur theatricals. The days were long, and—” Whale’s tone had gone a little wistful, but he broke off when he noticed Steve’s expression. “Does that seem cowardly to you? The relief to be kept out of it?”

Steve quickly shook his head, but Whale must have read the disapproval on Steve’s face before he thought to hide it.

“No, I have no right to judge,” Steve said. “I know I don’t know what it’s really like. I know it’s not like in the movies. I do know that.”

“And yet you’re still keen to fight.”

“I am.” Steve waited for Whale to laugh again, or something worse.

Instead he let out an endless sigh.

“Do you think they’ll ever make a picture about how things really are on the front?”

Whale’s head jerked up. He stared at Steve for a moment before answering. “I sincerely hope not.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t apologize, please.” Whale turned to the windows, but with the overhead bulbs reflecting off the glass it was impossible to see anything outside. “My goodness, we have become maudlin, haven’t we? _Dulce et decorum est_. . . . But I suppose I ought to at least go out and put in an appearance. And you had better find your friend.”

It was a clear dismissal, and Steve regretted letting the conversation divert to the war, but the topic was hard to stay away from. Most of their little talk had been so nice, and Steve didn’t like leaving on a sour note. “I’m going to write my friend and tell him I met the guy who made Frankenstein. I bet he’ll get a real kick out of that.”

Whale smiled—another genuine smile with no trace of teasing in it. “And you must tell your mother about Show Boat. That was always a favorite with me.”

“I will,” Steve said. There was no reason to ruin the mood all over again. He gave Whale one last nod and stepped back out into the garden.

He made his way through the dark slowly, pausing on the path to guiltily look for the couple in the grass. They were still there, quiet now, lying on the grass on their backs sharing a cigarette, their legs tangled together. Steve could hear the low murmur of their conversation, and one of them laughed. It was a low, breathy sound. Somehow overhearing it made Steve feel more like an intruder than he had watching them before.

He turned away, careful to keep his footsteps silent, but he kept thinking of the man’s face when he’d thrown back his head. It reminded him of the color plates in his art history book: seventeenth century paintings of religious rapture—the ecstasy of St. Teresa, pierced through the heart by an angel’s arrow and overwhelmed with love of the divine. It was a ridiculous association for something so base, but Steve couldn’t shake the image. It was a kind of surrender, to the pain as well as the pleasure. Maybe it did hurt. But maybe it was worth it.

Steve walked toward the pool but stayed in the shadows for a while, just watching, already thinking about how he would describe this bizarre, somehow invigorating evening the next time he wrote to Bucky. He thought of Bucky bragging about his better-than-perfect vision. It made Steve smile and wonder if he had better-than-perfect vision too now. The serum had vastly improved his eyesight, but he was still learning to understand exactly what he was seeing. There was so much he missed.

How had he not picked up on Frank’s interest in him? It was a new thing to be noticed just for how he looked—at least in a good way—but still, now that he thought about it, Frank hadn’t been exactly subtle. And Steve hadn’t understood his own attraction either, not that he took it very seriously. He was just looking for company while he couldn’t have Bucky. Though it was wrong to think of Frank that way—like he was only a good enough friend to make do with for now, while Steve was stuck in California.

Was everyone just making do? All the time? Frank hanging paintings he didn’t even like. Whale experimenting with Japanese ink because his lover had left him. Steve himself on stage like a trained monkey because they wouldn’t let him fight. And Bucky . . . but Bucky would be all right.

Steve wondered about the men by the pool. What did they do to make do? Was that was this party was for? A bit of quiet rebellion against having to hide? Maybe that was it—the idea made it easier for Steve to understand the appeal of it. Though now that he looked, the party had quieted down. Or maybe it only seemed less decadent now that Steve knew what to expect. There were men all around the pool in various states of undress, but other than one man in the shadows down on his knees in front of another—Steve tore his eyes away—mostly the fellas were just horsing around in the water.

If Bucky were there, Steve wouldn’t feel so shy. Bucky would bluster his way in, make the party fun. Maybe strip off his clothes and head for the pool. Steve could imagine Bucky giving him a look, daring him to join in. If Bucky were there, he might do it.

Frank was nowhere to be seen in the yard, so Steve headed for the back door of the house. It led directly into the kitchen, where Steve interrupted two young men. They were leaning against the kitchen sink, dishes piled up behind them. One was in a swimsuit, and the other had a towel wrapped around his waist. Was he naked underneath? They were only talking quietly together, and one of them had his arm wrapped around his friend’s waist. But the sight of their smooth, tanned chests so close was mesmerizing. They must have felt Steve’s stare. When they turned in his direction, he mumbled, “Sorry,” and passed through into a spacious living room.

He found Frank sitting on the bench of a big black grand piano. There were other guests scattered around the room, but it was clear the indoor party had a far quieter mood than out by the pool.

“Steve,” Frank said, putting on an exaggerated mournful tone. “Oh, Steve, I thought I’d lost you.”

Steve smiled.

“I thought they ate you alive.” Frank grabbed Steve’s hand and looked up at him through his dark eyelashes. “I bet you’re delicious.”

Heat tinged Steve’s cheeks for what felt like the thousandth time that evening. “You’re drunk,” he said quietly.

Frank laughed and nodded slowly. “I started off the night hoping to get spectacularly laid, but at least I’m ending it by being spectacularly sloshed.”

He dozed in the passenger seat while Steve drove back to the apartment. He had to shake Frank’s shoulder to wake him.

“Oh, Steve,” Frank sighed. “You should be drunk too.”

“I should?” Steve pulled on Frank’s arm until he stood up.

Frank hung on Steve’s sleeve, pushing up on his toes to whisper in his ear. “Then you might change your mind, come to bed with me.”

With a sigh, Steve pulled Frank’s arm over his shoulders and half carried him up the steps. Just before Steve managed to dump Frank on his bed, he gave it one last shot, leaning close. Steve turned his head so that Frank’s lips only brushed along his jaw.

Frank’s voice was hoarse when he spoke. “You gonna help me take my clothes off?”

“Frank, come on.”

“He’d never know.” Frank clung to Steve’s lapels. “Your _particular boy_. He probably doesn’t even _care_.”

“But I’d know,” Steve said mildly. “And I care.”

Frank groaned. “Too fucking good to be true.” But he laughed as he let Steve push him gently back onto the pillows, pull his shoes off, and lift his legs up onto the bed.

After a moment’s hesitation, Steve bent and kissed Frank on the forehead. “Get some rest.”

“Too good to be true,” Frank repeated, though this time he didn’t laugh.

Steve locked the door behind him, then tucked Frank’s keys through the mail slot on the door. He felt strangely cheerful as he started the long walk back to the hotel. It would be late when he got back to his room, but he’d gotten a letter from Bucky that afternoon, and he’d only read it twice before he’d had to leave for the movie theater.

 

The End


End file.
